


The World His Words Left Unrevealed (the Heart of Flame Remix)

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Category: Don Carlos | Don Carlo - Verdi/du Locle/Méry
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Fix-It, Grief/Mourning, Loyalty, Loyalty Kink, M/M, Posthumous letter, Restored Marital Relations, Strange Dreams, Strange Dreams of an Alternate Universe, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-12 03:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: Rodrigo writes a letter — to fulfill his responsibilities to the King, to protect the Queen, to protect his Carlos — which he has Thibault send to the King.This is the letter which he did not send.





	The World His Words Left Unrevealed (the Heart of Flame Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raspberryhunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspberryhunter/gifts).
  * Inspired by [His noble words revealed to my soul a new world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14972360) by [raspberryhunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspberryhunter/pseuds/raspberryhunter). 
  * In response to a prompt by [raspberryhunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raspberryhunter/pseuds/raspberryhunter) in the [remixrevivalmadness2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixrevivalmadness2018) collection. 



In the King’s bedchamber, Philip lay awake. The two lights which were usually kept burning upon his toilet had been doused; the rooms held a night thick with secrets.

In the vast bed beside him, slender and glorious, was his Queen. 

He had withheld from her since their return last week from the cloister of San Yuste. He had taken it upon himself to spend his evenings in her presence, stopping by her gardens and her rooms as if paying gallant court to a virginal paramour, but when it was time to retire, he had withdrawn with his escort to his own apartments without once availing himself of his marital estates. 

He told himself that such withholding was an act of benevolence, of forbearance befitting a King. But he rather suspected it was more one of fear. For in truth he was loath to upset the tenuous understanding that they had reached on that tumultuous night, when he had surprised them both by refusing to surrender her up to the hounds of the Inquisition, and when she had embraced him at last. 

Fear was not a quality desirable in a warrior king, God’s chosen instrument in the civilised world. But it was understandable in an apprehensive and loving husband, and welcomed by a wife who was finally learning to trust. 

That night, she had come to him for the first time in their marriage, since that long-ago day when he had had her brought to him from the forests of Fontainebleau. Dismissing her ladies, she had unlaced her garments with her own white hands, and had laid herself upon his sheets clad only in the loosened cascade of her hair. She had turned her face to his as he embraced her with trembling, un-kingly gratitude, and she had not left afterwards, but had fallen asleep at his side. 

Despite his own exertions, Philip could not join her in slumber. Instead, he remained awake as if at vigil before her altar. Under the cover of darkness, with no one to observe him, he could make free to marvel at the miracle of her face, innocent in its rest.

Had his dreams once been filled with the frenetic beats of _She does not love me, her heart is closed to me, she has never loved me_? Such thoughts seemed now so far away, replaced by more measured words in a far more reassuring cadence.

_Her heart is pure, and she cleaves only to you._

Those were the words of the Duke of Posa, conveyed to his King from beyond the grave: words which had delivered the Queen, and possibly even the Infante, who now remained at liberty at his King’s sufferance. At any rate, they were words which Philip had repeated to himself every night since San Yuste, words which had scorched themselves, from the moment Philip had read them, into his heart.

This Duke was a man whom Philip had in all his royal station allowed to be executed as a traitor. This man, this hero — one of the forty knights who held St. Elmo's Castle, who had crushed the dread conspiracy in Catalonia — who had been more loyal to the kingdom, and done his King more service, than any other.

_Sire, of my duties to you I have left one unfinished, and I write this letter now in part to discharge that task, so that I may face my death with nothing left undone._

Philip stirred restlessly, as wakeful as he would have been at the last rites for that singular man. The words throbbed under his breast-bone:

 _The Queen, whom we all respect and adore, is also a woman. If you treat her with kindness, with tenderness, ah! like a flower she will bloom under your hand, and other loves will be but memories. But with harshness, with neglect, she will wither and turn away from you. I fear for her, that she has seen only harshness from you, who ought to have been the most tender of all men towards her._

_Humble yourself before her — let her see you as a man — a man who loves her._

Posa had been right. Philip had shielded her from the Inquisitor, had set his kingly entitlements aside and approached her with the gentleness of a lover, and in response Elisabeth had turned to him when he took her into his arms, and had permitted him to kiss her on her mouth.

What else had Posa been right about? 

_If ever you loved me, listen to me now... Be the saviour and light of those people. Be a light to the world, my King._

Posa: who had never once asked for any reward or favour for himself, who had been willing to die for Flanders and for Spain. He had been willing to be thought a traitor, if it meant protecting his Queen, and his prince, and his beloved country. 

Frowning, Philip was put in mind of his first private audience with Posa. He had half-expected the usual suitors’ claims and entreaties; instead, the Marquis had exhorted his King to give the world liberty. He had stood fearlessly before that King, a full head taller than Philip himself, had spoken the words of a proud and dauntless mind without a trace of timidity, had boldly urged his monarch to devote his kingly power to his people's bliss, and to thereby subdue the universe.

Philip remembered staring at the man’s earnest, handsome face, remembered thinking, in a fierce blaze, _Never met I such a man as this_.

The sudden bitterness in Philip’s mouth threatened to stifle the lingering taste of Elisabeth’s sweetness. What a waste of Spain’s bravest knight, its brightest flame! He could have done so much more for his King and his country. Who could now restore this hero to those who needed his service, who grieved for him?

What else had that proud man, heading towards his death out of his great love and loyalty to Spain, nevertheless gone to such lengths to write? 

_If ever you loved me, listen to me now._

Abruptly, aroused to full wakefulness, Philip rose from his bed and stalked from the room. His pages and Elisabeth’s were asleep at the door; uncharacteristically, they did not rouse, and even more uncharacteristically, he did not rouse them.

The candles in the King’s study had almost burned down to their ends, but Philip paid them no heed. There was light enough to see the letters formed by that heroic hand, to read once again the words of his liege man.

Who had loved Spain, who was loyal, who had always been loyal.

The King’s desk was covered with papers documenting the affairs of state. None of them contained half the treasure as encompassed by the short missive he sought. Philip seated himself in his chair and reached for the casket that rested beside the ink-stand and the sovereign’s great seal of office.

Nestled among the rings and jewels of his kingdom was Posa’s letter. This was the very last document that man had touched, the very last words he had put to paper in his own hand, and it had been an address to his King.

Philip unfolded the single sheet. His fingers did not tremble, for kings’ fingers were always steadfast.

He cast his eye down the page, seeking out the familiar shapes of words which had been seared into his heart. 

Then he blinked, as if he could not believe his eyes.

The words ought to be familiar. But they were not.

To be sure, the hand was the same: the bold strokes, the manly pressure of nib, the well-formed letters that spoke of deep learning. But the words themselves — _ah_ —

  
  
*  
  


_My King and beloved:_

_If you are reading these words, it is because I have been slain as a traitor to the throne. If you have read any further than this line, it is because you have discovered that I am no traitor; that I bear as great love and loyalty to my King, and to Spain, as I always have — from the moment that you welcomed me into your bed._

_You may be angry with me for these arrangements, Sire, and you would be in the right. On me, and me alone, be the fault for it. But of my duties to you I have left one unfinished, and I write this letter now in part to discharge that task, so that I may face my death with nothing left undone._

_You asked me to delve into the Queen's heart. I have done so, but I have not told you what I have found. Let me make it plain: she is innocent of any wrongdoing against you. Her heart is pure, and she cleaves only to you. Of this I am convinced, as only one who similarly cleaves to you may be._

_Is it surprising that she still has affection toward the man to whom she was once affianced, or that she keeps his portrait? Rather should it be a testament to her noble heart: that she does not forget those whom she loved. But I know also that she would never betray you._

_Sire, I would be so bold as to speak to you as one man to another. We men are of a like; we seek our pleasures plainly, and make free with our desires, and deal with each other face to face and hand to hand. But women, even as indomitable a woman as the Queen herself, require a gentler approach. Be kind to her, humble yourself before her — let her see you as a man — a man who loves her. After all, you have shown such kindness to a mere soldier, you have allowed him to see you as not just sovereign and King — and it is the love of the man that has given the soldier this courage to do what must be done. Give your Queen the same courage and the same opportunity to return your love._

_I now address the subject of Carlos. Sire, he is your son. All bonds of family feeling that are given us from God, all laws of God and men, dictate that we pardon our sons, that we show them mercy. Was not our Lord Jesu himself raised up by his Father in resurrection and sits at his right hand? Show Carlos that love natural to hold for a son, and he will submit to you as a son should to a father._

_Well might you wonder: how well do I love Carlos? I will not deny it — he is of all men dear to me, the treasure of my heart. We were boys together. Much in the same vein as your noble Queen, I too do not forget those whom I have loved; had I been given his portrait, I would have kept it amongst my jewels in like fashion as she._

_But know this, O my King: like your Queen, I would never betray you, and I never have._

_I beg of you, Sire, listen to me now. You might believe my sacrifice to be for Carlos, for the Queen, for Spain, and it is — but it is above all for_ you, _my King and beloved. O do not let that sacrifice be in vain! Perhaps the Grand Inquisitor can pardon you before God. But if he ushers you into Heaven, will it be Heaven for you, knowing what has been done to those most dear, those innocents?_

_Let my own life be satisfaction enough. For I give it freely, so that there may be no stain upon the heart of my adored one, my most beloved._

_I will also once more plead for Flanders. If it is ever in you to show clemency to that people, know that you will be addressing the dearest wish of my heart. Restore to them the dignity of human nature, where freedom's lofty virtues would proudly flourish — and in so doing, your own wide realms will be rendered the happiest in the world, your own household the happiest in the universe, and your Rodrigo would be happy too, on the far side of Paradise._

_I ask you to read and believe these words, if ever you have loved and believed in me — as you did me the honour of professing when once you held me in your arms. I believed you then, unhesitatingly, and it has given me the courage to stay on this course to the end._

_Be a light to the world, my King, as you have ever been to your most unworthy servant._

_Your liege man, who is also and will always be your very own:_

_Rodrigo, Marquis de Posa_

 

*

 

As he read these strange, passionate words, Philip felt the sensation of unseen fingers circling his wrist. No one had ever sought to touch him in that way — not Elisabeth, nor any of his other lovers before her — and yet it was a caress which seemed at once achingly familiar. Strong, calloused fingers, as might belong to a knight accustomed to grasping a sword, or a man taking pleasure in himself … and then there was the brush against his knuckles of rough, distinctly masculine lips.

Philip’s vision blurred before him in the last of the candlelight. He heard a distant choking gasp, and belatedly realised it had come from him. 

When he returned to himself, he discovered that his whole body was trembling, shamefully, as it had never trembled before.

He glanced down at the paper in his shaking hand — and he saw that the letter had returned to how it had been before. His eyes once again cast themselves over familiar words that spoke of loyalty, and the love of a liege man, and nothing more. The intimate words of a lover were gone from the page, as if they had never been there; the intimate caresses, vanished like lost love. 

It was a only dream, then: a dream brought on by grief, and the pressures of the Crown.

Philip leaned back in his chair, struggling to master the only person in his kingdom which he could not keep in check. What new weakness was this? That in the moment when he had managed to win Elisabeth at last, at least for the space of this precious night — he would also dream of Posa’s love?

As if from that dream, he remembered what he had said to the Marquis when the man had paused for breath in his plea for freedom. _How can I hope to win you?_

Then, Posa had not responded — too much in love with Flanders, or with Carlos, or so Philip had then thought — but it now seemed that, in the world of dreams, he might have indeed consented to be his King’s.

Philip found himself addressing the Duke in his thoughts. _In my dream, you loved me, and sacrificed yourself out of that love — not out of your love of Flanders, or my son, but for_ me.

And could such a thing ever have come to pass, beyond the world of dreams? Could there have been love in this world, too, born out of Posa’s great loyalty, his heart of flame, that he might have given to his King, had that King but known to humble himself and seek it out? 

Almost against his will, he recalled the stumbling words he had spoken in the blindness of his grief as he knelt with Carlos over the fallen Posa, the young knight's body still beautiful and powerful even in death. _I have broken the staff which God has given me._

Philip lowered his head to his trembling hands, and wept.

**Author's Note:**

> My gratitude to Miss M for the beta, and to esteven and alcanis_ivennil for consulting!
> 
> As well as to raspberryhunter’s amazing, inspired universe(s), this remix pays homage to Philip's Act IV Lachrymosa lament for Rodrigo, and to the Alternate Universe of [Schiller’s Don Karlos](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/6789/6789-h/6789-h.htm).


End file.
